[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/J2p1lxg.png[/img][/center] [b][CENTER][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSeIh9rmEUs]IN DREAMS CHAPTER 6[/URL][/CENTER] [/b] [b]New York City[/b] [b]1939[/b] Wesley Dodds walked through the swanky penthouse party with detached bemusement. Tonight was supposed to be a who’s who in New York high society. The rich and elite were all gathered for one charitable reason or another. Wesley had trouble keeping track of what this season's pet cause was. He couldn’t help but find it funny that tonight's gala would almost certainly cost more than any money that would be raised. Tonight was less about actual charity and more about ego-stroking. Everyone had to be seen out and about, seen that they cared... or at least that they wanted to people to think they cared. He checked his watch and gave himself another half hour before he could politely make his exit. These events always reminded Wesley that he may have come from the wealthy class, but he was not of it. Not truly. They talked stock options, summer homes, and yachts to each other while on the streets below so many people did without. So much evil went by unnoticed or uncared by these people who had so many resources to fight it. Wesley did as much as he could with his own inherited wealth to donate to charity and give to the needy. What he kept, however, went to fund his other crusade against evil in the world. “Oh, Wesley Dodds, there you are!” Margaret Thurston grabbed at Wesley’s arm with a pudgy hand. She started to pull him through the room towards a small gaggle of socialites crowded together. “You are probably the smartest man I know, so surely you have an opinion on this.” Wesley noticed one of the men in the group had the latest issue of [i]Time[/i] in his hands. On the cover was a masked man with a green cape, a red shirt, green pants, and red boots. The sigil of a lantern was splayed on his chest. He faced the camera with a sort of playful smirk, his left hand raised and showing off a ring on the middle finger. The caption beneath his picture read: [CENTER]THE GREEN LANTERN & THE MASKED MEN OF AMERICA[/CENTER] “Oh, yes, I saw that,” said Wesley. “It is actually an interesting read.” “It’s just so bizarre,” said Margaret. “What makes a person want to wear a Halloween mask and go out to beat up bad guys?” “They’re lunatics,” said one of the men, a tall and thin gentleman with a waxed mustache. He expelled a column of smoke from his mouth and shook his head. “Some sort of mental defect or attention seekers.” “This Green Lantern chap doesn’t look too bad,” said another man, grabbing the magazine from the blonde man who had been holding it. “At least it seems he can actually do amazing stuff. Flying and some sort of beam with that ring of his… look at this one...” He spread the magazine out to show a portrait of another caped man with a giant star on his chest, flying above a city with a glowing rod in his hand. “This Starman out of Opal City, another one capable of amazing things. I only worry about what they could do if they decided to join the criminals instead of fighting them." Wesley watched the man flip through the magazine. He came to another drawing, this one cruder than the ones of Starman and the Green Lantern. It showed a man in a suit, hat, and trench coat, the gasmask’s eyes glowing red to make him look more inhuman. “This is the one that scares me,” said Margaret. “This Sandman fellow? So strange, just the sight of him gives me the willies.” “He helped police stop a sex murderer last fall,” said the blonde man who originally had the copy of [i]Time.[/i] “Among other things. They may be crazy, and they may be… unstable, but they seem to be inspiring a lot of people to do the right thing.” “I think you’re right,” Wesley finally spoke. “I do not advocate what they’re doing, or how they’re doing it. But we saw several years back that when times are hard, our institutions cannot help us the way we imagined they could. Sometimes you have to help yourself, and it’s easy to fall into apathy. I think these masked men can show people that if they want to really make change in this world, they have to do it themselves.” “Well said,” said the blonde man. “Mr….” “Dodds,” Wesley said, extending his hand. “Wesley Dodds.” “Alan Scott,” he said, taking Wesley’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” [hr] [b]Brooklyn[/b] [b]Now[/b] Wesley stood in the darkness of the storage unit and waited. By his own recollection he’d been up a little over twenty-four hours since the call that triggered this whole mess. The surge of adrenaline kept him awake. He’d crash when it was all over, but for now he could get through to see his task to the end. The sound of the elevator’s motor reverberated off the concrete and sheet metal of the storage facility so loudly, Wesley could hear it approaching from four floors below. This facility operated 24/7 with some kind of attendant always present at the desk. He figured whoever was coming up hadn’t noticed the clerk missing as they made their way to the elevator. The night attendant was behind the desk, deep in a sleep that would last until the sun came up. Wesley approached the closed roll-up door and slipped his gasmask down over his face. Someone on the other side unlocked the roll-up door across the corridor and started to pull it up. Wesley put one hand on the gas gun on his hip. With the other he rolled the door up and stepped out into the corridor. He pulled the gun out and aimed it at the back of the person who was turning around to face him. “Hello, Frankie,” he said softly. “...Uncle Wes?” Frankie stuttered. “What…” “You were always a bit sloppy,” said Wesley. “So was Sandy, but I like to think my old protégé would have at least enough sense to destroy any incriminating evidence before I could get to it.” “What are you talking about?” Frankie asked. “Why are you here, dressed up in that old outfit?” Wesley smirked from behind the mask. Frankie had always been a bad actress when she was younger. Sandy tried to turn her into a star as best as he could, but there was nothing there. And it seemed she was as bad a liar as she was an actress. “I found Sandy’s computer,” said Wesley. “It led to this place and his list of clients. A lot of weird people out there will pay top dollar to have sex with the Green Lantern or Black Canary… or what the fantasy of them. Whose idea was it, Frankie? Sandy was always money hungry, but I don’t see him doing this unless he was really had to. He was beginning to sell off his Sandman collection to help make ends meet before this little venture, so he had to be truly desperate. ” “I don’t…” Tears started to form in her eyes. “I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She started to cry. Wesley pulled the trigger on the gas gun just as Frankie started to go for something in her coat pocket. She coughed and stumbled backwards into the open storage unit. A single-shot derringer fell to the ground as she covered her mouth. “I don’t know if Sandy ever told you about the gas,” he said. “It’s a special blend I concocted almost… a century ago. It blends chloroform and sodium pentothal into a neat cocktail. A lot of it puts you out, but a little of it? Well that just makes you talkative.” Wesley kept walking towards Frankie as she stumbled backwards. She finally collapsed on the rickety bed in the storage unit. He kept the gun trained on her as she coughed. “Sandy gets financially desperate so he reaches out to you,” said Wesley. "You used to be a showgirl, I remember. You had all kinds of seedy entertainment connections. Put him in touch with both talent and potential clients. And you get a cut, right? I read Sandy’s emails with his clients. It was all coded, but again very sloppy. This little sex enterprise was getting Sandy -- and you -- a nice little payday. Only problem? Sandy wanted to end it. He was starting to turn clients down, telling him he was out of business… but Frankie -- Dinah Lance, actually according to the code names-- couldn’t have her cash cow drying up.” “I…,” she coughed again. “I...The things he did to me, Uncle Wes--” “Just Wesley, please.” She blinked rapidly a tears poured down her face. “The things… he did to me during our marriage. The running around, the drinking, the abuse. All of that and he left me broken and broke. After twenty years he used me until there was nothing left.” Her face twisted in some kind of look that was rage and despair fueled. “And when we finally had a good thing going, he wanted to end it. And you know why?” She looked at Wes with an expression that was pure hate. “‘Uncle Wes wouldn’t approve.’ That’s what he said. He sacrificed so much for you, he loved you with all his heart, and you… you broke it. All those years ago, you told him he was less than dogshit and it fucked him up. And even still, after all that shit, he loved you so much he couldn’t bear doing something you wouldn’t approve of. He loved you more than he ever had me. When he said that you wouldn't approve… I just… I snapped. We’d met at this little motel to talk about things and I… I just. I got him drunk, drunker than he had been in years. And when he was passed out… I took his belt and…” Frankie smiled at Wesley, showing her teeth and no warmth in the expression. “Sandy’s favorite Sandman case was the Tarantula Killer, did you know that? So… I let him have one more Sandman fantasy. I slipped the belt around his neck like the Tarantula had done to all those girls back then... and I..." Wesley's dreams. Rough hands on rough leather, pulling desperately and strangling the life out of Sandy. "Do you think he liked it, Uncle Wes? Do you think he loved it?! DID HE DO YOU PROUD, UNCLE WES?!” Wesley aimed the gun at Frankie’s face. “I alerted the NYPD, Frankie. I gave them all the clues they needed. By the time you wake up you should be in their custody. Sleep… and be consumed by your own dark dreams.” Frankie spat at Wesley as he pressed the trigger and gassed her.